


Son of Man

by kittenmittens



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: Bottom John Constantine, Constantine Mpreg, M/M, Mpreg, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 20:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16688719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenmittens/pseuds/kittenmittens
Summary: There’s a little girl, no more than six, standing just in front of him. Curly hair, bronze skin, and massive, amber eyes. John knows exactly who it is, though he’s never seen her this way in his life—not even in pictures. "Zed?”---John delves deeper into the rising darkness, battles a demon for the innocent, unborn soul of his friend, tries to bed his purely platonic "best mate", all while rejecting the idea of maternity leave.





	Son of Man

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my beta (Your_Bones) for being super patient with me while working on this. I was struggling with voice a lot for this chapter, not to mention a whole lot of plot threads I need to organize as I continue to write, and she was as patient as always. Note for the actual fic, though: I'm not sure if this will be "Legends" compliant once the full season is out, but you can interpret John's absence as relating to that, or something else entirely if you'd like.

“Good to be back, love.” John’s speaking to the empty millhouse as he comes in, patting the doorframe like you would a loyal dog. Of course, it seems his time away has made him a tad rusty—he doesn’t see it coming when, less than a second later, there’s the sound of hurried footsteps and he finds himself slammed up against the wall like he’s inside a bloody mosh pit. There’s a thick arm over his neck and he feels his feet lift right off the floor. That’s all right, he supposes—John’s been needing a refresher on defensive curses, though he’s not _loving_ the bit where he’s got to choke the words out through a gallon of his own spit. “ _Dușman, pleacă, du-te la—“_

“Knock it off, damn it!” The someone growls in his ear, John finally manages to turn his head enough to see the monster of a man trying to pound him into the wall like a picture frame is none other than Chas. (Come to think of it, aside from the Chas part, that’s a normal Saturday night for John.) The bloke groans, stepping back and letting John slide down to the floor. “I thought you were…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

John nods, coughing into his sleeve as he squints up at Chas. “Good to see you, too, mate.”

“Where the hell have you been?” Chas drops his arms at his sides, giving John a once over before he throws them into the air. “I haven’t seen you in… In _months!_ You just… disappeared.” He holds out a hand and John takes it, letting himself get yanked back on his feet. “I mean, would it have killed you to call?”

“I appreciate the undying loyalty, Chas, really I do, but, uh…” He dusts his coat off as he cocks an eyebrow at the big man. “Truth is, I’ve been seeing someone else. Multiple someones—by which I mean, I took an old friend up on a gig and it ran a bit long. Been training a whole nother lot of Ghostbusters.” John shrugs, straightening up and putting his hands into his pockets. “So. How’s that rising darkness, then? Still rising? Not even a _shade_ lighter?”

“John—!” Chas looks as though he’s ready to kick John’s teeth in, but he changes his mind halfway through. “Zed’s gone.”

“Gone?” Oh, John does _not_ like the sound of that.  “I’m assuming she didn’t run off and join the bloody circus.”

“ _No._ ” John can see those big, meaty mitts clenching and un-clenching furiously. “You remember those people—the _cult_ that was looking for her? _”_ Chas swallows loudly, slumping as he looks at John like a beaten dog. “I think they got in here again. I think they took her.”

“And you saw them do it, did you?” John’s got every right to be skeptical—he spruced up the wards before he left, and placed every discombobulation spell known to man around the perimeters; he’d be more likely to find those prats bumming around a skin bar than in here. “So the gorgeous twenty-something with an overpowering wanderlust’s been gone for forty-eight hours. I’ll sound the bloody alarm.” He sneers, prodding at his forehead. “Use your head, mate.”

“I _am,”_ growls Chas. “She was here a few days ago, and she doesn’t leave this place unless she’s going to class, or out on a mission. You haven’t been back in _forever_ , so I’ve been checking up on her.” Damn—John hasn’t seen Chas this pissed since he called his old bag of a mother a monkey-fondler. “She’s been here every time I came over, but last time, she was gone. I’ve been waiting here for three days: she hasn’t called, or texted, and all her stuff is still here.” Chas gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing like a merry-go-round horse. “It’s like you said, John. Getting into this place without an invite would be like trying to steal the Hope Diamond. And without you here, there aren’t a lot of people who’d be willing to try _that_ hard to get in.”

“Mm.” John nods absently, pulling a cigarette out and then fumbling for his lighter. “I say we give it a day. See if she turns up.”

“Are you _serious?”_ Chas socks him right in the shoulder and John hisses.  “I’m trying to tell you she’s _missing!_ Do you seriously not give a shit?” Sighing, Chas folds in on himself. There’s a real uncomfortable silence, one that John doesn’t care to fill, before Chas mumbles, “She cared about you, you know. That’s why she waited for so long.”

“Yeah. Got a point there, mate.” Lighting the end of his fag, John closes his eyes and tapes a deep drag. “With me on leave, she had a real ‘get out of jail free’ card. Should’ve gotten out while she still could’ve.” Oh, he’s certain Zed had plenty of fun on the introductory course to the occult that John gave her, but the longer she stayed on board, the closer she came to seeing it all go pear shaped. As it turns out, her luck finally ran out a few days ago. “And what’re you doing here, then? Why haven’t you gone after her? All the… cursed artifacts and trapped spirits fair exchange for a few low mortgage rates, or did you—“ John bends forward a tad, leering at Chas. “Did you just miss me _that bloody much?”_

“Now’s not the time for that, John.” Ohh, he’s a poor sport. “I’m here because I need your help. And, I know this concept completely blows your _selfish_ little mind, but we’re supposed to be Zed’s friends. We’re supposed to help her!” Chas is getting real worked up, now—his face has gone red and he’s all but barking at John. “She spent three months waiting for you to come back—she worried about you. We _both_ did.” He moves one thick finger towards John, prodding him in the chest. “I know how you don’t care about that, but you know what? It doesn’t matter. You owe me, and I am calling in that favor _right now._ We’re going after Zed.”

“Ohh, that’s real sweet of you, Chas.” John’s got to wonder if something came up between them—all the lonely nights both of them spent pining after John had to go somewhere, right?

“Yeah. Sure.” Chas ducks down, grabbing John’s suitcase and slinging it onto the couch. “Don’t get too comfy. We’re leaving in ten.”

“We are, are we?” John picks at his chin, watching as Chas stomps his way over to the door like a huge, pissy bear. “Where we off to?”

“Surprised you haven’t figured it out on your own.” Chas disappears into another room, then turns out a few minutes later with his own bag. He shoulders it, makes a move to leave, then pauses by the door. “New Mexico.”

 

*

 

“What the hell is that thing?”

John strokes a finger over the split branch of the stick, frowning when it comes away coated in dust. “A dowsing rod, soaked for a month in the blood of an Aztec priest.” He turns slowly in a circle, sort of moving along a vague pathway through the brush while Chas trudges after him like a lost child. “See—real big on ritual sacrifice, they were. Something they’ve likely got in common with Zed’s daddy and the rest of his lot. And if my theory’s anything to go on, they’ll have a doozie planned for the upcoming _family reunion_.”

“Family reunion, huh?” John stops twirling about just in time to watch Chas nearly fall arse over tit as he walks straight into a log. He catches himself just in time—real shame, that. John could’ve done with a laugh. “Is all this just… guesswork, or is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Ehh. Might as well come clean.” John sets the dowsing rod back in his bag, snapping it closed with a grimace. “Old Manny decided to break his radio silence on the trip down here. Seems he’s got a soft spot for our Zed. Told me we were on the right track, and that I’d better not let a single hair on her head come in harm’s way if I ever wanted an ounce of help from him again.” He shrugs, echoing their little natter. “I told him he’d helped me about as well as a healthy case of genital warts, but he didn’t seem to appreciate the joke.” Then he’d looked at John like he knew something fascinating he’d never let John be privy to, and Chas had nearly veered into oncoming traffic upon being de-possessed. “According to Manny, tomorrow night, three of the most holy heavenly bodies triangulate—thin out the space between the mortal and heavenly realms—which makes it the perfect time for Zed’s dear old dad to invite an angel into their midst.”

Chas freezes, looking at John like he’s barmy. “That… doesn’t sound so bad.” Never learns, does he?

“Chas, mate…” John sighs, turning on his heel and rocking back and forth with a sour look on his face. “Wait for the punchline, will you?”

“Okay?” Still isn’t aware of the bombshell about to drop on his head, but then again, Chas is a man with thirty-odd deaths to go through before he’ll consider shelling out for life insurance. “So what’s this got to do with Zed?”

“Right. Well, this isn’t your run-of-the-mill, heavenly errand boy. It’s not another Manny type—this is an _archangel._ It’s something else entirely, and they’re not inviting him in for a bloody pillow fight.” John opens his bag again, rummaging around and pulling out an old, Germanic grimoire, turning to the page with a lovely illustration of a demonic blood-orgy. Sure, the shindig Zed’s attending will be a tad less Ozzy Osborne, a bit more _Martha Stewart_ , but the body count’ll be the same. “They’ve decided to give the second coming a wee slap in the bollocks—hurry it along with a new incarnation of Christ before the end of days hits. ‘Course, they’ll need a Mary, and our Zed’s been groomed for that barrel of laughs since she was tiny.” He puts on the kind of smirk that hasn’t got an ounce of humor in it. “Funny how she never mentioned it.”

“So we’ll break her out. _Obviously_.” Chas swallows loud enough for John to hear it as he rushes to catch up. “That doesn’t really solve our problem, does it?”

“Doesn’t it?” They’re getting close now. Dowsing rod set them on the right course, and John can see a massive chain-link fence just over the hill. “We get Zed, take our leave—the door closes, the planets de-align, and they’re out one Mary.” He pauses just to give Chas another smarmy look. He’s got his priorities, after all. “See, Chas, what with the whole _conditioned from childhood_ aspect, they don’t come easy.”

“Wait, wait—“ Ducking under a tree-branch, Chas demands, “Are you saying she’s brainwashed?”

“More of an ancient Sumerian memory suppressing hex, but ehh... Close enough.” John isn’t especially picky with the terminology. “Not too worried about that bit. Far as I can tell, she must’ve un-squeegeed her brain well enough the first time she got away from these tossers. Worst comes to worst, we’ll, ahh—“ After thinking for a tick, John shrugs. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“And how do you know that’ll be it, huh?” Chas has really got to stop it with the empathy; no place for it in their line of work. “Okay. Okay, let’s—say we stop them. Say we get Zed out of there, and back to the millhouse, and they can’t keep the door open. Maybe they don’t have another sacrifice, or Mary, or _whatever_ ; who’s to say they’re not gonna want _revenge?_   Or that they’re not gonna just… try some other way to open the door, and then kidnap Zed again?”

“That’s a bridge we’ll cross when we get to it, innit?” John shrugs, then makes his way down the hill, rubbing his hands together with some crushed lavender as he comes near the fence. He lets his eyes roll up in his head a tad, chanting, “ _Daef, fath, kashf, earad—!_ ”  A small, ripped corner of chain by one of the posts busts open and John steps over to it, prying it back for Chas so the big man can get through.

“Really wish you would’ve told me you had a real plan,” grouses Chas, struggling to squat down.

“Well, I’ve taken on a resolution this year.” John follows Chas soon as he’s through, hopping to his feet and patting the dust from his knees. “Promised I’d try and ease up on the _bullshit.”_

*

 

By the time they make it in through two sodding miles of cult housing and out-buildings to the ceremonial chambers, the big event’s already well underway. Zed’s on some stone slab in the middle of the room, set up before some ugly bastardization of an altar. There’s a doorway just behind her— twenty feet high, and arched like a church window that’s outlined in mosaic and leads to a flat, concrete wall. Zed looks like she’s ten miles high, eyes glazed over and mouth open—not even moving as hooded figures shuffle about all around her. She’s in a flowing robe of pure white, not too different from the one that Zachary kook stuck her in down south, and likely naked as a jay underneath. That last bit, John feels confident about—one look tells him _nippy_ it must be in this particular chamber.

“Shame we’re late,” John mutters, inching along the balcony with Chas at his heel. “Could’ve spoiled the whole ritual real easy if we’d caught Zee before show time.”

“Oh yeah?” Chas is looking over John’s shoulder, making certain no one’s got any reason to come up here. They made it straight to the heart of this freak show with only a handful of knock-outs and brainwashing hexes; John’s fully aware that things have been going too bloody well. “What’s that?”

“Mary’s got a subtitle, if you’ll recall. _Virgin_.” John swallows, freezing up when he thinks he hears a noise that’s too close for comfort before he starts up again. “Now, I’m not about to speak for Zed, but lifelong chastity doesn’t really seem like her style. They’ll have performed a cleansing ritual beforehand, but all she really needed to incur the wrath of whoever’s headed through portal would be a quick lay.”

Chas groans, turning around and wincing down over the ledge. “Yeah, well—that’s not happening. She’s not in any shape for…” He clears his throat. “You know.”

John grimaces. “Chas, she’s not in any shape to wipe her _arse_.”

Chas hangs his head and grabs at his face, speaking from behind his massive gorilla paw. “Okay. Next option?”

John shrugs, glancing aside and making a small ‘ehh’ gesture. “Still working on that part, mate. Tell you what _.”_  He watches carefully as the hooded figures form a perfect circle around Zed, chanting under their breath. It’s too low for John to hear from where he is, but he feels his face go dark when Zed begins to sit up. She pulls looks about as natural doing it as Regan MacNeil did spinning her head around three-hundred-and-sixty sodding degrees. She turns to one side, sliding off her stone slab and beginning her zombie walk towards the altar. “Shit.” Well, that’s that—they’ve run out of time to fuck about. Standing up, John tears off towards the opposite end of the balcony, slinging one leg over the railing and giving Chas a quick nod. “Try and stick the landing, yeah?”

After that, he flings himself over the edge, hitting the ground hard enough to make him regret doing this sober. Somehow, he pulls himself back on his feet, scrambling over to Zed, weaving between her back-up dancers so he can grab her by the shoulders. “Zed. Love. Much as I hate to spoil this backyard barbecue, the cab’s here, so we’d best be going.” Something’s wrong. Well, clearly, his observation skills are at their peak, but more specifically, he means that their sheet-clad audience isn’t really… reacting. Swallowing, John stares for a moment, then tries to pull on Zed’s shoulders again. Zed, however, seems to have suddenly acquired the density of a blue bloody whale—no matter how hard John tugs, her legs don’t move, and she stays rooted to the floor.

There’s a thump and a groan behind him, and soon enough, Chas is at his side. “Uh.” He leans forward, eyes darting back and forth nervously. “Why aren’t they doing anything?”

“Because her soul already belongs to Gabriel.”

John rolls his eyes as what he can only assume is Zed’s daddy dearest glides out from behind the billowing curtains on the altar, raising his arms up all slow and dramatic, as if he’s ready to fondle the stones of the big man himself. “She cannot be awakened from her slumber, nor will she stray from the path.” He locks eyes with John, and his gaze is frigid. If John’s ego were even a tad smaller, maybe he’d be intimidated. “She wishes only to serve the lord.”

“Yeah, sure—we’ll see about that.” John steps back, giving a shimmy as he works himself up. “Anybody’ll stray from the path with the right temptation—it’s right there in the first bloody chapter of the bible.” He nods towards Zed’s lifeless face. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Suddenly, he’s running through his all these useless facts about Zed—everything he’s got in his brain pertaining to her oddities, her likes, dislikes, little… _idiosyncrasies._  Anything he can think of to prattle on about. “What do you want, love? Money? New set of charcoals?” John’s going to have to get creative here. “Don’t suppose there’s some new convertible you’ve been lusting after.”

Suddenly, Chas reaches out and claps his hands right next to Zed’s face, just about busting John’s sodding eardrum open. “I… thought that might work.” He shrinks into himself as well as a six-foot-something lumberjack can. “Sorry.”

“Ahh, ‘s all right. We’ll try the air horn next.”  John sighs, then cups Zed’s cheek lightly. “Don’t hate me for this, love. Or do. Whichever works.” He leans in and kisses her softly. For a second, he doesn’t particularly care if this gets a rise out of her. Hell—he doesn’t even care that they’ve been temporarily transformed into a bloody floor show for a mass of brainwashed trick or treaters. He’s just caught up in how her lips feel like velvet, and how long he’s wanted to do this for. Oh, he’s sure a greater man would mighty concerned with the ethics of it all, and real concerned about Zed’s consent, but that’s less of an issue for John than saving her life. But it doesn’t matter either way: when he stops their one-sided snog fest, Zed’s just as much of a blank slate as before.

All right. Now John’s getting worried. “All right. Last offer. How about a shag to save you the trouble of becoming the big man’s side item? Unless you’re comfortable with—“

Zed moves fast, slapping him clean across the face, and John staggers back, trying to catch himself. “Did you just kiss me!?” John hisses, hand on his stinging cheek as he manages to find his footing. When he squints up at Zed, her eyes are wide and her cheeks are flushed, and she’s more or less foaming at the mouth. _That’s_ his girl. “John, what the hell? Do you have any idea how creepy that is? What were you—“

From out of the corner of his eye, John sees Zed’s daddy lift his arm, and just like that, the two hooded figures nearest to her lunge forward. They grab her under the arms and start dragging her back. Chas reacts first, going for the one on the right, swinging at him but missing by a hair as the glorified duvet dodges.

“It’s wearing off! _Light the candles!”_ Zed’s old man is bellowing now, and John likes to think he sees a sheen of sweat beading on his forehead. The rest of his crew breaks out into hushed chanting, and another burly fellow throws back his hood so he can see clearly before plowing headlong into Chas. John starts to run after Zed, but two more blokes—or birds, John can’t tell, nor does he bloody _care_ —scramble into his way. Growling, he paws at his inside pocket, pulling out the three-hundred-year-old clove of garlic he’d been saving for a rainy day. “ _By the strength of the old ones, living in the chasms between worlds, I command thee_ —“ And, just like that, another cultist has a hand the size of John’s head wrapped over his mouth.

He tries everything he can think of—kicking, scratching, biting—but those techniques just aren’t as effective outside the bedroom. Soon, Zed is standing before the portal, held in place by two men, each twice her size, while Chas and John are on their knees, a circle of Ravenscar’s finest flanking them on all sides as their wrists are tied, and John’s given a gag. Soon, all that chanting and candle-lighting pays off, and the flat concrete surface of the portal glows a sickly blue-white. He can hear Zed, clear as day—first, muttering a flurry of ‘no’s, and then outright screaming, thrashing and trying to pull her arms free.

“John!” Chas’s muscles are straining against his skin as he tries to snap the bindings on his arms like he’s the bloody man of steel. “ _DO SOMETHING!”_

Not much to be done, with a gag in his mouth, but John’s got one idea. An incredibly stupid, ill-thought-out, and guaranteed to be disastrous idea. Eh, what the hell. Those are the most fun. He frees one of his wrists from the ropes—simple, painful trick (turns out, practice enough, and you can come close to being double-jointed)—but he can’t get the other hand out. One is all he’ll need, though. Maybe this is all a blessing in disguise; John’s certain they’d notice his muttering well before they’ll see him scribbling furiously. Quickly, he glances around, making sure the whole congregation’s in awe of the big show up front before he sticks a finger in Chas’s mouth, motioning for him to bite down and break the skin.

Chas does it far too eagerly and John’s got to hold back a scream, only taking a second to shed a manly tear before yanking his hand away and starting to scrawl the circle out on the ground in blood. He works quick as he can, improvising a good chunk of it—he still barely connects the last outline when the sodding Casper fan-club finally takes note. A shame, really—they’re just a couple seconds too late. The circle’s already glowing this impossible red-black color and John motions for Chas to scramble back, which he does, so that both he and John are wedged tightly against the legs of some poor, daft cultist who’s preparing to shit enough bricks to make an outhouse.

“John?” Chas watches, gobsmacked, as a tepid wind picks up and threatens to push them all onto their arses. “What’d you do?” The cultists in their circle are shouting out towards the front of the room, but no one seems to hear them—the rest of the crowd’s got their eyes on the portal up front, no clue what’s happening just in the rear. With everyone gawping, he and Chas are given a nice window to scramble to their feet, dart between their captors, and stumble towards the back wall.

John works at freeing his other wrist with Chas’s help, finally undoing his gag. “That’s the ticket.” Ah, right. Chas’s question. “I take it you remember my brief… _jaunt_ with Pazuzu, yeah?” Chas nods furiously, so John goes on while they inch along the wall towards the altar. “See, as it turns out, Pazuzu was just in the middle of his housewarming when Anne-Marie yanked him back out. In the process of making me a suitable host, he… _curdled_ my blood. Made it… _demonic.”_

“What?” Chas doesn’t even look at him—though, seeing as there’s a massive bloody arm erupting through John’s portal, prying the floor apart into a fiery chasm—John supposes he shouldn’t be offended. “What does that _mean?”_

“A few things, actually,” John admits. “But, for our purposes, it means I’ve got a connection to the old git. Via my blood—think of it as one of those—“ John mimes dully, observing as Zed and her bodyguards stumble backwards to make room for a figure of pure, ethereal white, twenty feet tall and gliding seamlessly through the church’s portal. “—those tellies you’d make out of two cups and a string when you were a little nipper. Only difference is, the other end of that line leads straight to hell.” He and Pazuzu are connected now, and he’s got no clue why the bloke decided to take his invite, but he’s not about to look a gift-demon in the mouth.

“You—S-So you summoned him?” Chas swallows, turning to stare at John as John gives a nod. “ _Why?!”_

“Thought it might be like one of those old Godzilla movies,” John admits. “Two massively powerful beasts see one another and immediately go at it.” He pulls Chas along, weaving his way through the cultists and fighting against the impossibly strong waves of energy coming from two overpowered monstrosities being summoned in tandem. “Then, while the big boys are getting shirty, we nab Zed and make our getaway.” Pazuzu’s presence will only last as long as John’s blood is wet, and Gabriel—well, Gabriel’s here for a bit longer, but he’s bound to have a negative reaction when he realizes his Mary’s nowhere to be found, and John’s more than happy to let Zed’s daddy cover the tab. And if Gabriel kicks Pazuzu to the curb in no time, they’ll have less time to form an escape route, but at least that’s one less thing vying for the ownership of John’s immortal soul.

“JOHN!” Through the blinding white, John makes out Zed’s springy-haired silhouette, reaching desperately out for him. He reaches back, pushing against the heavenly gale, then going white when Gabriel bends and curls one massive hand around Zed’s waist.

“ZED!” Chas scrambles forward—though, with a bloody celestial hurricane trying to pin him to the nearest wall, it’s more of an awkward shuffle. Zed screams as she’s yanked back, Gabriel lifting her like some sort of sex-trafficking Barbie. Then, a moment later, it becomes apparent that Pazuzu’s wiggled free of the floorboards. A massive, red blur throws itself at the angel, sending him, and Zed, toppling towards the floor. The ground shakes and rubble sprays down from the ceiling in puffs, and John watches in awe as Pazuzu rises up from a crouch. His whole form is unclear—like his very cells are shaking, likely a side effect of John’s blood’s being the only thing tying the demon to this realm. He’s a massive, ugly old duffer; head of a dog, one pair of bat wings, and another pair made of ebony feathers, with arms that end in long, crimson sickle-claws. His age doesn’t seem to be slowing the old bat down much, because before John, or anyone around him, can finish taking in the view, Pazuzu lets out a soul-shattering howl and digs his claws into Gabriel’s forearms. He starts pulling the angel out of the debris he’s caught in, prying him free like a sodding breached calf. Gabriel’s a whole nother can of worms—looks like you might imagine an angel to look from the neck down, but the head’s where the picture gets a bit fuzzy. Far as John can tell, it’s just this mass of irradiating light with dozens and dozens of eyes swirling around the region. His body’s like a great, blue-white crystal, and his wrists smoke and hiss where Pazuzu touches him. Soon as Gabriel’s pulled back on his feet, his grip loosens, and Zed goes flying out of his hand. The room shudders as Pazuzu rears back and smashes the angelic git against the wall, and Zed screams again, crawling forward as John races towards her. He spots her old man struggle to his feet behind the brawling giants, so John puts on an extra burst of speed, grabbing Zed by the wrists and pulling her to her feet.

“Dunno about you, love, but I’m ready to see a man about a dog.” John gives her a cheeky smile, then curses under his breath and yanks Zed aside again as the ceiling ripples and sends another flurry of dust raining down.

“John!” Zed gawks at him, grabbing feebly at his collar. “John, what did you _do?”_

“Brought in the cavalry.” John steps aside nimbly as Zed’s daddy makes a grab at her, happily letting Chas sprint over and kick the bloke square in the middle. “You know that old saying? ‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own bloody size?’”

“The—THE CLOSING PRAYER!” Zed’s old man is bellowing now, straining to get to his feet again as he coughs up spittle on the floor. “S-Start the closing prayer!”

All of his mates who aren’t crushed under rubble, or too caught up in the show, start chanting in unison in these frail, weak voices. John almost feels bad for ‘em—this is the kind of shite that’ll clean up a bad oujia session, not a banishing ritual for a Mesopotamian god. “Yeah—that’ll do him. Good luck with it, big man.” 

“John! John, let’s go!” Chas has him by the arm now, pulling him away, and John hurries to turn around, but as he moves, he gets this… feeling. A familiar feeling, warning him it’s all about to go to pot, and he can’t put a finger on why because it hasn’t happened yet. It’s _real_ bad this time around. Hasn’t felt it like this since Newcastle, so it’s no bloody surprise when, after no warning, Zed’s hand slips right through his fingers.

John bellows, throwing his arms in front of himself as Pazuzu looms before him, claws grasping Zed as Gabriel lies motionless behind. His wings are ripped to shreds, with bits of him strewn across the altar, and his ethereal glow is fading. The cultists are yelping, mewling like scared animals, scrambling out of windows, crowding against one another, all desperately trying to wedge their way through the doors by fives and tens. Zed’s father is a flattened, blood-drenched pancake—evidently, Pazuzu didn’t take kindly to his attempt at rallying the troops. Still, one look at Zed, held in the demon’s hands like a door prize, eyes so wide and full of terror she can’t even find it in her to scream again—John swears he sees Astra’s face flicker over hers, and after that, there’s no going back. “CHAS! _TAKE OUT THE SEAL!”_ Water, wine—he can use his own spit if he has to, anything to dilute the blood. John’s going to be the best sodding distraction he can—he’ll prance about like the world’s ugliest showgirl if he’s got to. Zed reaches out for him again, tears budding in her eyes, and John mutters, though he knows she can’t hear, “I’ve got you, love.”

“John!” She calls out again, and it’s like a wound he didn’t realize he had just got ripped open again. Pazuzu’s making a break for it; he stomps back towards John’s sigils, slapping Chas aside with one effortless flick of the wrist. Chas hits the wall with a nasty crunch, then stays there, motionless and slumped over.

“No. No—!” John tears after the demon, then stumbles and stops. Pazuzu’s turned Zed around, gazing deep into her eyes, and she’s gone quiet—not just from terror, but from something else entirely. John sees now. He was wrong. He’d assumed the old bat would want to drag Zed’s soul back to hell with him, or that he’d want to pick up where Gabriel left off—but that’s not it at all. There’s a reason Pazuzu would go through all the effort of entering holy ground and fighting off one of heaven’s mightiest, and it isn’t because he’s looking to go for round two with John. He likely feels Zed’s been bloody gift-wrapped for him, and now he’s decided to try his luck with using her as a host. At least, that’s Joh, red bastard’s giving her the satanic Care Bear stare. “You don’t want her, mate!” He sidles closer to Pazuzu, putting his hands behind his back so he can run them through the near-empty bottle of holy water he’s got tucked under his belt. “She’s a mite vanilla for your tastes.” Pazuzu lets him get close, but just as John rears back to send a flurry of droplets flying towards the beast, the demon catches him by the neck, lifting him clear off the ground as he chokes. Suddenly, he’s gasping for breath, being held out a few stories off the ground as the hellfire below makes short work of the water on his palms. John’s heart is going faster than it has in years, and nearly ready to pray when he sees Chas’s body twitch out of the corner of his eye.

Pazuzu turns his great, meaty head, looking towards Zed, then back to John. “Yeah, that’s right, you old codger. Look familiar, don’t I?” There’s a massive stone lodged in his throat, and John can barely talk around it, but no one’s got to know about that. “I’ve got a proposal for you. You let the girl go, you get me. No test drive this time—none of me fighting for my immortal soul, no exorcisms…” He nods slowly, never breaking eye contact with those hideous, swollen orbs. “I’m all yours.” The demon is still for a moment, watching John while John fights not to look—not to even _glance_ over—as Chas slowly, painfully drags himself towards the portal.

Just as the poor bloke reaches one trembling arm into his jacket, pulling out a flask, Pazuzu turns back towards Zed. John’s got no bloody clue why Pazuzu’s picked Zed— never mind how claiming her wouldn’t do him near as much good as finding a way to keep John’s seal intact. But he makes no move to protect the sigils. Instead, a transfer of energy flares up between him and Zed, a smoky, blistering ray traveling from his eyes to hers, and right when John reaches out for her, Chas splashes vodka onto the circle, diluting John’s blood and causing Pazuzu to shriek. Next thing John knows, he and Zed have been dropped. He hits the floor with a nasty thud, bones threatening to slip out of place as he shakily pushes himself up. Pazuzu’s fallen to his knees as well, his shuddery visage blinking in and out of existence before it finally fades to nothing.

“Zed!” John scrabbles over to her, pulling her into his arms. She’s perfectly still—lifeless, he thinks, then hates himself for it. Her chest isn’t rising, her mouth hangs slightly open, and she’s pale. “No. No, no—“

Chas stands behind them, an arm around his middle as he fights to stay standing. “I-Is she… ?”

“No.” Can’t be.

‘Course, then, he’s a bit too right—Zed’s eyes fly open and they’re the color of dried blood all the way through. She snaps an arm up to grab at John’s throat, fingers digging in before they suddenly go slack. She kisses him, hungry and animalistic, and John swears he feels something enormous and slick slither down his throat. He freezes, too stunned to move, barely catching Zed when she goes slack again. Gasping, her whole body tenses, as though she’s being crushed under the weight of her own skin. John watches, mind infuriatingly blank, as Zed’s eyes go back to normal—the red color draining out of them until they’re a familiar blazing amber—and she gasps out one word. His name. “John.”

And, just like that, crumbles to dust.

 

*

 

“I know what you’re thinking, mate. You don’t have to say it.” John’s head hurts. So does his entire body, naturally, but his head’s decided to be the biggest wanker about it. “It’s all my fault.”

“Yeah?” Chas’s knuckles have gone white and he works his jaw furiously as he stares out over the steering wheel. Been like that for hours, now—John’s not sure he’s even seen him blink. “Well, what’s the point of saying it over and over again if you _never_ learn?”

“You gonna leave, then?” John puts his temple up against the window. It’s not cold, like he hoped it might be. He thought they were far enough north by now, but apparently not.

“What?” Chas says the word like it’s a struggle to even be bothered. John’s sure even talking to him makes Chas that much pissier.

“Leave, mate. You’re the only one who hasn’t.” Last real friend John’s got. Knew it was only a matter of time til he scared Chas away, but it still stings. “This the final straw?” John’ll give it to the bloke, it’s a damn good one.

Chas just growls deep in his throat, like a guard dog telling him not to get any closer. “Don’t push your luck.”

 

*

 

“ _John.”_ Chas snatches the lighter out of his hand, glaring as he jerks a thumb towards the sign printed on the side of the gas pump. It’s some warning about sparks causing explosions—though John’s always thought that’s a load of bollocks from Americans getting poncy about smoking in the past few decades.

“Sorry.” John squints at Chas tiredly, pulling the fag from his lips and pocketing it. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”

“I don’t know why I bother.” Chas looks like he’s ready to go on a tirade, but whether he does or not, his voice fades to static in John’s head. Feels like he’s been dropped into a soggy watercolor painting—everything around him’s melting and swirling, and after a few dizzy blinks, he’s not at some crusty gas station stinking up the corner of a one-street town in Kansas—he’s at the millhouse.

“… Sod off.” John mutters to himself, then jumps a bloody mile and a half when some squeaky voice pipes up.

“Who’re you talking to?”

There’s a little girl, no more than six, standing just in front of him. Curly hair, bronze skin, and massive, amber eyes. John knows exactly who it is, though he’s never seen her this way in his life—not even in pictures. Staring blearily down at her, he mutters, “Zed?”

“Yeah?” Zed tilts her head, tiny hands in fists at either side of her yellow sundress. “What?”

Chas’s voice is right at his ear. “John.”

“ _Bloody—_ “ John takes a shaky step back, pawing at his mouth as he looks around what’s once again the gas station. He’d love to focus on exactly what it is Chas has been prattling on about, but distracted by the familiar feeling of losing his sodding mind.

“What… just happened?” Chas waves a hand in front of John’s face and John wrinkles his nose, slapping it away.

“That’s…” John clears his throat, head throbbing in tandem with his heartbeat. “ _That_ … is a real good question, mate.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> One more thing-- if anyone reading this is actually British, and you notice something off with how I'm wording slang, etc, PLEASE don't hesitate to correct me! I'm very American, and I want to do John at least a bit of justice, even if it's just for a gross, self-indulgent fic.


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